


The Invisible Man

by anactoria



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Angst, Bottom Lucifer, Community: spn-masquerade, Creepy Fluff, Lonely Sam, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 04:50:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6409477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anactoria/pseuds/anactoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drifting from town to town, with no contact from Dean or any of his friends, Sam's starting to feel like a ghost. He just wants to make somebody feel something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Invisible Man

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a [prompt](http://spn-masquerade.livejournal.com/7665.html?thread=2613745#t2613745) at [spn_masquerade](http://spn-masquerade.livejournal.com). The prompt was just for bottom!Lucifer, so I'm not sure how I ended up with this much angst. Set in the End!verse, several months after Sam and Dean part ways.
> 
> Many thanks to [frozen_delight](http://archiveofourown.org/users/frozen_delight/) for the beta and encouragement. <3

Sam still keeps the cellphone charged.

The one he last spoke to Dean on, six months, three weeks, four days ago. It was only ever supposed to be a burner, but Dean bought it for him on their way out of town as they left Sioux Falls, and it might turn out to be the last thing Dean ever gave him.

(Six months, three weeks, five days. Six.)

It never rings. No Dean, no Bobby, no nobody, and after what happened with Lindsay, Sam hasn’t exactly gone out of his way to make friends. He doesn’t have anybody to give his number.

Sam’s gotten good at passing under the radar. One of the disadvantages of his height is that he sticks out in a crowd, so he compensates with hunched shoulders and downcast eyes, scruffy clothes and a few days’ stubble, so he looks like the kind of guy you deliberately avoid noticing. He moves on every couple weeks, changes his name each time he hits a new town. After Keith, he’s James, then Richard, then Allan, then Joe, and on and on and on until he isn’t really keeping track, just nodding at whatever name gets thrown in his direction.

Mostly, he wishes his cell would ring so he’d know that Dean’s okay. But sometimes, he just wants to hear somebody call him by his own name.

In the real world, that is. Lucifer hasn’t shown up in his dreams since Garber; but sometimes he wakes to the echo of a voice saying, _Sam_ , inside his head, shreds of sleep clinging to consciousness, and he knows he should want to come back to reality more than he does.

 

* * *

 

Later, he won’t even remember the name of the town he’s in when he sees Jo.

Working at the gas station on the edge of town, Sam hears rumors. People talk as they pass through. A couple nearby farmers find whole herds of cattle dead in their fields. Then a freak storm hits two towns over, and he starts packing his bags.

The next bus out isn’t until tomorrow morning, so Sam buys his ticket and heads back to his motel. He takes one of the shortcuts he marked on his mental map when he arrived in town, turning down a side-street—and stops dead, heart leaping into his throat, when he almost runs into a familiar figure.

Jo stares at him like she’s seen something way more unexpected than a ghost.

Sam figured hunters would show up here sooner or later. Demon omens made them kind of inevitable. He just didn’t count on them being people he knew. Which is dumb, because it isn’t like he’s forgotten what happened to Steve. It’s just that it’s been so long since anybody recognized him, he’s kind of forgotten it was possible.

But recognition is only half of how Jo’s looking at him. There’s fear in her eyes, too, her hand reaching instinctively for a weapon, and Sam’s stomach lurches as he wonders what she’s heard about him. What Dean and Cas and Bobby have told her.

_He might look like the guy you knew, but you can’t trust him. He might be the Devil. If you see him, run, because he might be the Devil._

Jo’s mouth works, but nothing comes out. Not even his name.

For a second, Sam’s seized by the impulse to approach her—take her arm and beg her to hear him out, explain that he never wanted any of this, that he’s just trying to keep his head down and not hurt anybody else.

Only for a second. How could explaining possibly help? What difference does it make that he didn’t want this? He still did it, and he has no right to ask understanding from anyone who has to live with it now.

So he turns on his heel and runs. He thinks he maybe hears Jo call out to him, but he doesn’t stop to find out what she has to say.

Sam checks out of his motel room. He spends the night in the bus station, sitting with his back to the wall, fending off sleep with vending machine coffee. If Jo is looking for him, she doesn’t think to check there, and there’s no sign of Ellen or anybody else he recognizes.

That absence leaves him feeling lonelier than he has in months, and he thinks about calling Dean. Even a terse, _Leave me alone, Sammy_ , might be better than radio silence. At least he’d know where he stands.

He gets as far as pulling up Dean’s number before he gives up and sticks the cell back in his jacket pocket.

The bus is due to leave at seven-thirty. Towards dawn, Sam finds himself nodding despite the coffee, eyelids heavy as the gray dawn light filters through the clouds outside.

An announcement over the PA system breaks into his doze. He starts into a sitting position with the memory of a voice echoing around the inside of his skull.

A familiar voice, though he’s never met its owner in the real world. It should scare the crap out of him. Hell, it should make him want to take up cocaine just so he’d never want to sleep again.

It’s just that it spoke his name so gently—without judgement, without fear. It’s just that it’s been so long since anybody did that.

When the bus pulls away from the station, Sam is slumped low in his seat near the back. He rests his head against the window glass and lets himself sink back into sleep.

 

* * *

 

The idea of seeking Lucifer out doesn’t come to him overnight. It sneaks up on him gradually, over weeks of hiding, dodging demon omens and hunters who might recognize his face.

Living this way wears on him, wears him thin, until he catches sight of his reflection in a store window and is a little startled that he still exists, hasn’t faded like a ghost. He’s so tired. These days, he only feels real in his dreams.

He just wants the whole thing to be done. Not being able to do anything about it—to help end it, one way or another—nags at him, keeps him awake at nights. (And he doesn’t want to hide from sleep, not anymore, a whisper in the back of his head.) In the end, Sam figures that not being a hunter anymore doesn’t mean he can’t use some of the skills.

Sam actually feels a little better once he’s settled on a course of action. Scouring the web, plotting out demon omens on his map of the Midwest, trying to figure out where they’ll hit next and how best to avoid them. He’s less scattered than he has been in a while; not so jumpy. He doesn’t stop to check his cellphone all evening.

Having a clear head seems to help, because a pattern emerges as he plots.

The demon omens don’t lead in any particular direction. Instead, they circle a spot on the map. Big stretch of empty farmland in Kansas; nothing to distinguish it except that there used to be a church somewhere near the Western edge. No demon omens to be found in that spot, though they’re thick around its edges. Eye of the storm.

It’s such a peaceful idea. _If I was there_ , Sam thinks, _I wouldn’t have to hide anymore._

He catches the thought and stops it in its tracks, but not before a treacherous little part of his brain adds, _Because someone would be pleased to see me._

That night, Sam doesn’t sleep, but it’s not for want of trying.

He lies restless on the lumpy motel bed, remembering. Remembering what it was like not to hide; to stand at his full height and look somebody in the eyes. To walk into a room and have somebody smile to see him. To hear his own name in familiar voices.

That’s all over. He’ll never have it again—not with Dean, not with his own family.

 _But maybe someplace_ , supplies the treacherous little voice. _Maybe with somebody._ Sam’s too tired to tell it to shut up.

And when dawn comes, he finds that he’s made a decision.

 

* * *

 

Sam cleans up after himself and packs his stuff, goes through the same motions he does every time he needs to clear out of a town. He’s on autopilot, his mind wandering, and it occurs to him that everything seems a little… insubstantial, he guesses. His belongings. The motel room. The cars passing on the interstate. They sound distant, muffled, like it’s the dead of winter and there are six feet of snow outside the door.

He wouldn’t be totally surprised to stop halfway through stuffing clothes and weapons into his duffel and find that they’re just props, not really his—or to push at one of the walls and feel it give way beneath his hand, like a movie set. A ghost-place for the ghost he’s turning into.

But not anymore.

Sam’s done with disappearing, with running from fake identity to fake identity, with existing in gray limbo. That’s the one thing he feels sure of, in all of this. He may not know what he’s looking for—whether he wants to confront Lucifer or plead with him or just end himself—but he knows the half-life he’s been living is over.

He’s gotten out of the habit of shaving, of thinking about how he looks. Scruffy makes people’s eyes slide over you easier. Today, though, he takes the time to shave and splash cold water on his face, makes himself meet his own gaze head-on in the mirror.

Maybe it’s the lack of scruff, or the fact that he isn’t slouching. Maybe it’s just that he’s looking for it. Whatever, when he forces himself to really _look_ , instead of catching his reflection via sideways glances in storefront windows, Sam recognizes himself again.

He isn’t sure if that’s a good thing, but it’s a small certainty, and he holds onto it as tightly as he can.

Before he leaves, he pauses, checks his cellphone one last time. Maybe Jo is still in touch with Dean, or Bobby. Maybe she told them that she’d seen him.

No messages. No missed calls.

Sam leaves the cellphone on the nightstand and closes the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

The first thing he notices is the cold.

It’s spring, and still mid-afternoon when Sam gets off the bus, but there’s a bite to the air that makes him stuff his hands into his pockets and walk fast. By the time he reaches the deserted stretch of farmland, there’s frost thick on the stubbled ground, crunching beneath his boots. The sun is out, but it’s high and ghostly pale in the sky, its light hardly seeming to reach the earth at all. Sam’s breath mists white before his face.

The wrongness of it all is palpable, prickling across his skin like static. Voices that sound like Dad and Dean whisper _stop, turn back, run like hell_ at the edges of his consciousness.

Still, something keeps him going. Something calls to him.

It isn’t warm or comforting. It isn’t dark and heady like demon blood. It’s something pure and sharp and painfully bright, like a note of music on the upper threshold of hearing. And more than all of that, it speaks to _him_.

Sam doesn’t hear his name in it—he doesn’t need to. He feels it right in the center of his self. It reaches out and wraps itself around him like it’s welcoming him home.

It’s wrong. This isn’t home. He doesn’t have a home.

He doesn’t have a home, or anyone to share his homelessness with, and so he goes where he’s called.

 

* * *

 

Sam knows the epicenter when he sees it. A barn with boarded-up windows in the middle of a disused field. Doesn’t look like much from the outside, but the air around it seems to breathe, the cold making the hairs on his arms stand up even through his jacket.

There is no wind, but the barn door swings open with a creak. Just wide enough to admit a person.

Sam might have made his decision hours ago, but he can’t help the terror that claws its way up from his belly, clutching at his throat and leaving him dizzy. This is the craziest thing he’s ever done.

It’s the only thing he has left.

He steadies himself, breathes in lungfuls of cool air. Then he ducks through the gap.

He blinks at the darkness inside, eyes slow to adjust after the watery sunlight, but even before he gets used to the gloom, he somehow knows where Lucifer is. That brightness calls to him from the center of the dusty space, pulling him in like gravity. He’s vaguely aware of sigils on the walls, the floor, but can’t spare a glance to figure out what they are. A few shadowy figures hang around the periphery. Must be demons. Sam barely registers them before they turn and file out of the building, coordinated, as though in response to some invisible signal. The door closes behind them.

And there he is.

Lucifer’s standing in the middle of the barn, watching Sam, his expression mild and open. There’s a table spread with maps and books behind him and he leans against it, posture easy, master of his domain. Like he’s just some guy welcoming an old friend into his home.

He wears the same face Sam saw in his dream. Sticking-up mess of blond hair; old clothes; looks like he hasn’t shaved in a couple days. Those wintry blue eyes are the only striking thing about him. If Sam didn’t know what he was, couldn’t feel it in the air, he might pass the Devil on the street without a second glance.

But he does know, and it sings under his skin. Lucifer’s eyes are fastened on his face, bright and intent, and the relief of it breaks over him like a wave. Being seen. Being known for who he is. Someone being _happy_ about it.

“Sam,” Lucifer says, and it’s the voice from his dreams; very calm, very gentle. The voice he clings to sleep for every morning. “I knew you’d come.”

Sam swallows. Fights down the relief before it can overwhelm him. His throat is dry. “I’m not here to say yes,” he says.

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. To have to fight his corner somehow, he guesses. Fend off another attempt at convincing him they’re both the same, that there’s no fighting destiny.

Instead, Lucifer shrugs and says, “I know.” He tilts his head, eyes still fixed on Sam. “But you’re not here to fight me, either. The weapons you have in that bag wouldn’t leave a scratch. You may as well have come unarmed.”

Sam blinks. He’d kind of forgotten he was carrying his duffel. Now, he lifts it off his back and looks at it, weighing it in his hand. Hesitates a moment, then sets it down on the floor near his feet. Lifts his chin and meets Lucifer’s eyes.

“No,” he agrees. “I'm not.”

The admission ought to be shameful. For a second, he can’t help picturing Dean’s face—the scowl, the wounded look hiding behind it. But Lucifer smiles in answer and it loosens something at the core of him, lets him breathe a little easier. Despite the cold, he isn’t shivering anymore.

For a moment, he doesn’t realize that his feet are moving. Leaving his weapons behind and letting Lucifer draw him in. He catches himself and stops dead a couple feet away.

Less than arm’s length. If he just reached out—

He cuts the thought off there, because Lucifer is still looking at him with that birdlike curiosity. “Why _did_ you come here, Sam?” he asks. It sounds like a genuine question, not an accusation, but Sam doesn’t have an answer. He shakes his head, looks at his feet.

The brush of fingertips at his jaw makes him start, eyes going wide, and when he looks up he finds Lucifer standing close to him, something in those pale eyes that he can’t place.

“If I had to guess,” Lucifer says, slowly, “I’d say it’s because everybody else has left you.”

Sadness. Sam thinks it’s sadness.

 _Don’t trust it_ , warns the Dean-voice in the back of his head. _He isn’t human. It isn’t real. He isn’t like you. Whatever he says, he isn’t like you._

Trust or no trust, Sam can’t bring himself to lie. He scrubs a hand down his face and says, “Thanks for the reminder.”

“You’re angry.” Lucifer’s voice is still gentle. Understanding. Sam should hate it. “That’s okay. You don’t have to be afraid of showing it. Not with me.”

The idea feels a little strange when Sam tries it out. It hasn’t occurred to him before now that he might be angry. He was angry for so long, after Dean went to Hell. He kind of thought he’d exhausted it all, that it had died with Lilith in St. Mary’s.

“I won’t blame you,” Lucifer tells him, hand curving round the back of his neck, leaning into Sam’s space so that their foreheads almost touch. “ _I_ won’t leave you.”

It should be a threat, but it sounds like a blessing. Sam doesn’t have the strength to fight it.

He shuts his eyes, closes that final fraction of space between them. His forehead rests against Lucifer’s. They’re sharing air. It’s so cold. Sam thinks for a moment—in a vague, distant kind of way—that he might freeze to death right here. He’s heard it’s a peaceful way to go, once you stop panicking and just lay down in the snow.

He doesn’t freeze. His heart keeps beating. Lucifer’s fingers curl through the hair at the nape of his neck; Lucifer’s other hand comes to rest in the center of his chest, over the buttons of his shirt. Sam feels it through his clothes like a brand.

Lucifer pulls back, just a little, and looks at him with that same gentle curiosity. “You’re warm,” he says. “I guess I should have expected that.” And he inches closer again—like the force pulling them together goes both ways; like Sam is the flame and not the moth.

Sam shouldn’t trust it, shouldn’t trust any of it, but it warms him against the cold. Being touched. Being seen. It feels like Lucifer is tracing the outlines of him, bringing him back into existence after so many months of invisibility.

He isn’t surprised when Lucifer fits their mouths together and kisses him, soft and questioning. He isn’t even really surprised when he closes his eyes and kisses back.

It’s been so long since he did anything like this. That was Ruby, and the thought is a painful twist somewhere in his chest. There was laughter behind her eyes when she looked at him. He feels sick when he wonders what she saw.

The memory makes Sam go still. His eyes snap open and he backs up, ducking out from under Lucifer’s touch.

Ruby pretended to give a crap about him. Sometimes he thinks she even did, in her own twisted way. But at the end of the day, Sam was still being pushed around the chessboard, and he ended up doing exactly what she wanted, check and mate. Ruby was working for Lucifer, and he’d be crazy to expect Lucifer to be any different. He _doesn’t_ expect that; not really.

Lucifer lets him go, though. He doesn’t try to hold on, doesn’t protest when Sam pulls away from him and starts pacing. Halfway to the door and then back again, an aborted move to pick up his duffel. When he straightens and looks back at the center of the barn, Lucifer’s sitting on the table, hands clasped in front of him, watching Sam with sad, patient eyes.

Sam shakes his head. “What am I doing?” He isn’t really sure who he’s asking.

“I can’t answer that. You came to me.” The reminder is gentle. After a moment, Lucifer adds, “But I know why you’re here. I know what you need.”

Sam scrubs a hand across his face. Sighs and sees his breath. “Nobody’s called me,” he says. “For months. They just—”

“Abandoned you.” Lucifer doesn’t raise his voice, but there’s something in it that hangs heavy in the air, makes the hair on Sam’s neck stand on end. “I was alone for eons, Sam. I know how it feels.”

“But you’re not—” Sam breaks off, not sure how he intended to end the sentence. _You’re not human? You’re not like me?_

“I know,” Lucifer repeats, and all Sam can do is come back to him.

When he’s a couple feet away, Lucifer reaches out for him, takes his hands and tugs him in closer, until he’s standing between the Devil’s thighs. Maybe it’s Sam’s imagination, but Lucifer’s hands don’t feel so cold this time. Almost like Sam’s presence is thawing out the permafrost; putting an end to Lucifer’s personal winter.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on the thought, though, because Lucifer laces their fingers tightly together and squeezes his hands. Sam thinks it’s meant to be reassuring.

“This isn’t conditional,” Lucifer tells him. “I know what you need. I’ll give it to you. It’s that simple.”

God, but Sam wants it to be that simple. Part of him does, anyway. It wants to believe that the only creature on the planet who’s happy to see him is actually just happy to see him.

He wets his lips. “No tricks?” he asks. His voice only trembles a little.

Lucifer doesn’t blink. “No tricks.”

“And if I wanted to leave?”

“I’d let you.”

 _I will never lie to you_. That was what he said the first time they met, in Sam’s dream. He has the same expression on his face now.

Sam exhales, a little shaky. He makes his decision.

He extricates his right hand and touches the side of Lucifer’s face, thumb brushing along his cheek—and Lucifer’s eyes widen a fraction, as though maybe he wasn’t expecting Sam to go for it. He leans into it, then, like a cat being petted, chasing Sam’s warmth.

It’s enough to make Sam wonder how long it’s been, for him. If it’s been forever. If there even was anything like this, before the fall.

He stops himself there. That train of thought’s a step too far. Too close to forgetting what Lucifer is, thinking of him like a person. To stop himself thinking, he leans down, presses his mouth to Lucifer’s.

Lucifer goes with it, easy. Lips parting under him, soft and slow, following Sam’s lead, waiting for him to deepen the kiss. He tastes like the smell of rain. It should feel inhuman, like kissing an ice statue, a lightning storm. It doesn’t.

A lightning storm has no reason to take any notice of Sam Winchester. Lucifer kisses him back like he’s the only thing in the world, hands sneaking up to tangle in his hair again, making a soft noise somewhere in his throat that isn’t quite a moan, but is more than Sam expected from him, somehow. He presses closer, and Sam expects freezing cold, but it doesn’t come.

Come to think of it, the air’s a few degrees warmer than it was when he got here. His fingers tingle with the feeling coming back.

“What’s on your mind?” It’s a breath against his lips. He pulls back and finds Lucifer watching his face, sharp-eyed.

“I—” Sam begins, and then stops, stumbling over all the questions that seem too dumb or too pathetic to ask. _Does this feel the same for you?_ and, _Does it matter the same?_ and _Do you get tired of the cold?_ What he ends up saying is, “You know you’re not supposed to kiss with your eyes open.”

“Really.” There’s no sarcasm in it, though. More like Lucifer is filing the fact away under ‘weird human stuff’ for future reference. “And why is that?” He touches Sam’s chin, holding him there, like something to be inspected. Or admired. “Why would I not want to see you?”

The directness of the question makes Sam flush. Lucifer’s fingers trail up his cheek, following the warmth of it. “I don’t know,” he admits. “It’s just—a thing.”

“How strange.”

“I guess? It’s kind of—somebody kisses with their eyes open, it means they’re not really into it. Like they’re looking over your shoulder. For something better.”

Abruptly, the gentle brush of Lucifer’s fingertips is gone and there’s a hand at the back of Sam’s neck, pulling him close again with inexorable determination. Those cold eyes turn fierce, and Sam feels a tremor run up the length of his spine that should be fear, but isn’t.

“Now,” the Devil murmurs against his lips. “Why on Earth would I do that?”

They’re kissing again, then, and Sam honestly couldn’t say who initiated it. Just that it isn’t slow or tentative, this time. Sam’s eyes slip closed and their tongues slide against one another, deep and needy—but there’s none of that battling-for-dominance crap. It’s all about getting close, a joint enterprise. Like they’re trying to crawl inside one another’s skin.

Lucifer’s hands sneak up under the hem of his shirt. Not icy anymore, just cool enough to make Sam start, and to chase the uncomfortable thought out of his head. They skim up his sides, trace the contours of his chest. Then, with a flick of Lucifer’s fingers, his shirt is gone and they’re running up his arms, over his shoulders, tracing the outlines of him.

The air is mild on Sam’s skin, but he still feels exposed. He breaks the kiss and pulls back an inch, shoulders hunching in a half-conscious attempt to curl in on himself. Which Lucifer apparently picks up on, because he gives another lazy half-wave of his hand and evens things out.

“Better?” he asks, eyes intent on Sam’s.

The body he’s wearing is nothing to write home about. Just an ordinary guy, forty-something, light dusting of blond hair on his torso, going a little soft around the middle. But that’s not the point. The weight of something so vast and terrible watching him with human eyes, waiting for Sam to say this is okay— _that’s_ the point, and Sam nods quickly and says, “Yeah. Yeah, that’s better.”

His voice comes out hoarser than he expects, but he doesn’t get time to worry about before he’s lost in more kisses, in the slide of skin against skin and the slow heat creeping up the Devil’s body under his hands. Lucifer isn’t cold anymore. He feels almost human.

 _I did that_ , Sam thinks, and it’s the first time since St. Mary’s that thought hasn’t been accompanied by a wave of shame.

Strange, that Lucifer should be the reason both times, but Sam doesn’t let himself stop to wonder at it in case he remembers all the things he _should_ be feeling. He lets himself concentrate on what he _is_ feeling. The way Lucifer kisses him deeper and makes a small, needy sound when Sam’s fingers slide up the length of his spine; the way he shivers when Sam breaks the kiss and nips at the lobe of his ear, legs wrapping round Sam’s waist to bring him closer, eyes flickering open. Sam feels a small stab of triumph at the fact Lucifer had his eyes closed. Curiosity, too.

He blinks, presses a kiss to the side of Lucifer’s neck to see what reaction he gets—a rough whisper of his name; fingernails raking up his side—and then says against the skin, “Is this… new? To you, I mean?”

Lucifer pulls away enough to give him a puzzled look. “You’re human,” he points out, as though that’s all the answer Sam should need.

“I know. I mean, okay, I get that, you’re not a fan.” He doesn’t let himself think about the understatement. “But don’t angels—I mean…” He trails off, becoming aware that he may be out of practice when it comes to pillow talk, but he really is treading on thin ice here.

Something closes off in Lucifer’s face, just for a second. His eyes go distant, and Sam can almost feel himself fading away.

But it’s only for a second. Lucifer meets his gaze, then. “There are… analogues, I guess,” he says, lightly enough that Sam figures it might be a sore subject, wonders again just how long it’s been. Lucifer reaches up, brushing Sam’s lower lip with his thumb. “But baby steps, I think.” He dips his head to bite at Sam’s collarbone, hands traveling lower to tease at the waistband of his jeans.

Sam isn’t exactly _surprised_ to realize he’s hard—because half-naked and kissing somebody, it tends to come with the territory—but some little part of his brain is still insisting this isn’t really a sex thing. It feels more necessary than that, somehow. Like the Devil’s touch is the only thing keeping him from disappearing.

Lucifer doesn’t give him time to be terrified of the thought, whispering “Sam?” close to his ear and then turning to mouth at his jaw, soft and exploratory.

Sam swallows hard. “Yeah,” he gets out. “Yeah, I want…” He trails off. However he finishes that sentence is going to be both a truth and a lie, and right now he doesn’t want to puzzle over them. He just wants to feel the relief of knowing he exists again.

“I know,” Lucifer says, against his skin, and kisses him again. He finds the spot just below Sam’s ear that makes him breathe in sharply, sends sparks straight to his cock, and flicks his tongue against it.

Sam groans. He’ll wonder, later, how the hell he kept the presence of mind not to say, _Oh God_. He rolls his hips, involuntary, and catches his breath when he feels the line of Lucifer’s hard-on through his jeans. He’s feeling this, too, or at least some part of him is.

It’s been so long since Sam made anyone feel anything but disappointment. He wants to hold onto this and never let go.

“I know,” Lucifer says, again, “I know,” and it starts out pleased and turns breathy when Sam rolls his hips again. His arms tighten around Sam’s shoulders.

Between one thought and the next, their pants are gone. Sam starts at the sensation, still expecting cold air on his skin, but it doesn’t come.

He doesn’t get time to wonder about that, either, because Lucifer tugs him down into another kiss, the slide of naked skin against skin keeping him distracted. The rush of need he feels is sudden, a little overwhelming, and he might be embarrassed by it if this were some other encounter, if this were anything like normal. But it isn’t. And anyway, he’s not the only one. Sam has the Devil writhing in his arms, gasping for breath like he needs it, cock slick with pre-come, eyes going dark and wild when Sam presses him down onto the tabletop. He’s the only human in the universe who’s ever been in this position.

The thought makes his heart race painfully in his chest, makes him think for a moment that he might come right here, like this, like a teenager.

Lucifer doesn’t let him. “Sam,” he says, voice rough and insistent, no sign of his careful patience now. “ _Sam_.” He wraps his legs around Sam’s waist again, angling his hips so Sam has no illusions about his meaning.

It’s a little sudden, Sam thinks. You’re supposed to work up to this stuff slowly, not jump straight in at the deep end after a few minutes’ kissing. Especially if one of you has never actually fucked a human being before.

Only, it feels like they’ve been waiting months for this, not minutes. And it’s not like any of the usual rules apply anymore, anyway.

Sam still asks, “You sure?” The _don’t-be-an-asshole_ instinct is ingrained too deep for him to not—and the only person he ever didn’t ask was Ruby, and he needs this to be different than that, somehow.

Lucifer blinks up at him, and for a moment, his expression turns contemplative. “You know,” he says, “I don’t think anybody’s ever asked me that before.” His gaze sharpens then, eyes focusing in on Sam’s face. “But yes. I’m always sure.”

He reaches down to curl his hand around Sam’s cock, smearing pre-come along the length of it, his touch so warm, so damn _good_ , that Sam feels his hips stutter forward involuntarily. He gathers himself enough to lift two fingers to his mouth, figuring that there probably isn’t any convenient lube lying around here, so they’re gonna have to work with what they’ve got.

Lucifer gives an impatient shake of his head. “No need,” he says, and spreads his legs in invitation.

 _Guess we’re really doing this, then_ , Sam thinks, a little incoherently, and he reaches down and pushes in.

He meets no resistance, the way slick and easy. Lucifer must be working some kind of angel mojo. The thought feels blasphemous, should probably freak him out, but the way Lucifer’s head falls back and his eyes slide closed as Sam crooks his fingers chases the thought from his head. Lucifer is breathing hard, cock twitching against his belly, a faint sheen of sweat covering his skin. He’s letting himself feel this like a human, Sam realizes. The idea fills him with something like awe.

It goes straight to his cock, too, and then Lucifer’s saying his name again, insistent hands drawing him close, and he’s thrusting against Lucifer’s thigh as he twists his wrist and drives his fingers in, the friction and the low, needy sounds he’s pulling out of Lucifer almost enough to send him over the edge.

He thinks he might be about to lose it when Lucifer’s hand closes round his wrist like a vise. His eyes are open, fixed on Sam’s, pupils wide with desire.

“Not like this,” he says. There’s a hint of a tremor in his voice, and Sam feels his throat go dry, the thrill of being able to do this stronger than demon blood, stronger than anything.

Sam nods and pulls his hand free, strokes his cock once, twice more, and lines himself up. Lucifer pulls him down into a bruising kiss, and then he’s pushing forward, pressing inside, heart hammering in his chest.

Lucifer goes still as he does, breaking the kiss to gasp against Sam’s mouth. He’s so warm inside, his thighs trembling around Sam’s waist, and he’s clinging to Sam like they might both drown if he lets go. For a moment, all Sam can do is hold himself there and breathe through it, eyes falling closed.

“ _Sam_.” It’s ragged, almost a growl, and when he opens his eyes Lucifer is looking up at him, lips parted, desperate.

He gives an experimental thrust of his hips, and Lucifer arches up to meet him, hands sliding down to grab at his ass.

Sam’s voice comes out hoarse. “Does that feel—?”

“Perfect,” Lucifer tells him. “Almost perfect.”

It sounds like a prayer. Sam decides not to think about the ‘almost.”

He starts to move. Sets a steady pace—careful, mindful of the fact the Lucifer apparently hasn’t done this before. He leans down to press their mouths together again, kisses in lazy counterpoint to his thrusts.

For a moment, Lucifer goes with it. It’s easy, languid, a slow fire building in Sam’s belly.

Then there’s a hand against his chest, and Lucifer breaks the kiss. Sam opens his eyes, blinking.

“You don’t have to hold back,” Lucifer tells him. His voice is level, though it’s obviously an effort. One of his hands trails up Sam’s back. “Not with me.”

He’s been treating Lucifer like a human, he realizes. It would be so easy, in this moment, to forget who he’s fucking; that the man beneath him is just the tip of a vast, ancient iceberg. He shouldn’t let himself forget.

But he doesn’t want to think about that. Instead, he does as he’s bid, quickening his pace, letting the snap of his hips turn brutal. That gets him a gasp, and the fingers of Lucifer’s other hand digging into the meat of his ass with an urgency that feels like _don’t you dare stop_ , so he doesn’t. He lets himself get lost in it, the heat and the slide and urgency, the sounds that Lucifer makes under him, the pulse fluttering at his throat. He reaches for Lucifer’s cock, moving his hand in rough, frantic strokes, and a moment later Lucifer gasps and shudders and clenches around him, come spilling over his belly and Sam’s hand.

The look on his face is pure wonder. Sam closes his eyes and drives into him with all of his strength, and there’s white light behind his eyes when he comes.

Lucifer’s hand on his face brings him back to himself. He blinks his eyes open, and finds Lucifer watching him with that same calm curiosity he wore when Sam first showed up here. His thumb brushes along Sam’s cheekbone.

“Do you feel better?” he asks.

Sam ducks his head. Then lifts it again and meets the Devil’s eyes. “Uh, yeah,” he says. “Actually.”

Lucifer smiles at him. Leans in for one more kiss. It’s a chaste peck of lips, almost sweet, but Sam feels his earlier apprehension start to filter back. Can’t help but wonder if this will turn out to be conditional after all.

But Lucifer shakes his head, presses a finger to Sam’s lips. “I’ll see you soon, Sam,” he says.

There’s a sound of great wings and he’s gone, leaving Sam standing naked in the middle of the empty barn.

His clothes are folded neatly on the table.

Sam’s legs shake as he dresses. He feels different than he did when he got here, though. More solid, somehow.

When he opens the door to let himself out, the frost on the ground is gone. There are green shoots peeking through the earth, and somewhere, distantly, he hears birdsong. The air is warm as spring on his cold skin.

**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me? [Tumblr](http://anactorya.tumblr.com) | [LJ](http://anactoria.livejoural.com)


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